


New Libertalia

by pro_se



Series: softly, in vain [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gambling, Some reference to past works, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 17:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: With no shortage of visitors in the day and nighttime, there's talk about pirate politics, first impressions, and owed debts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: to each person who commented on my fics…. thank you and take this
> 
> also the author realizes that auburn is a better color description than russet

The trading booth is a small store mostly shrouded in darkness, courtesy of the pastel yellow curtains that line the windows. While the thrifty owner initially protested against this choice, limiting what sun shines through had improved the coloration and quality of the antique perhaps-they’re-forged-but-we-won’t-ask-questions paintings that cover almost every inch of the timber walls.

_ The business lies in trade and auction,  _ you had calmly said, and slid the black-bound ledger across the table.  _ And those, in turn, relies on ensuring the best goods on all of Nassau. _

A quick glance at the ledger’s neat notes and records of auction biddings had the beet-red owner turning pale in a matter of seconds. All the fight drained out of him in the face of profits, profits, and more profits.

_ And the drapes were on sale _ .

In addition to the apparent hike in both trade and auction sales, the owner’s declining health deemed that you would take over most of the store’s decisions and responsibilities. “You’re a fucking godsend,” your boss had proclaimed one morning, covering his mouth with a splotchy napkin. “Bless whatever ship brought you here.”

You had smiled, and ceremoniously wished him good health. However, you wondered if he would say the same, if he learned it was a pirate ship and a cruel captain that brought you to the island. A year after Nassau’s rebranding as the pirate capital, relations between the merchants and mariners were still and understandably volatile.

Nonetheless, you have made a humble living here in the pirate-infested waters, and consider yourself lucky that you were literate, well-versed in maths, and the same cruel captain’s quiet assistance in securing your reputation in the trade market.

“How’d you do it?” you ask curiously one morning, watching Vane slowly sift through various, sea-weathered multilingual tomes. You tear your eyes away from his callused hands and try to focus instead on his closed expression.

“How did I do what?” he says without looking up.

“Convince the port to give me a job. Most women who come here end up being wives, courtesans, or barmaids. Or all three. You don’t see girls working the trade unless it was inherited or they were married off to some merchant.” 

“I didn’t threaten to burn down the store, if you’re worried about that,” Vane says, frowning. “Nor did I try and extort the old man.”

“I never assumed that. But he’s not an easy man to bargain with.” You tilt your head curiously. “And you’re not fond of asking for favors.”

“Yeah, well, he owed  _ me  _ a favor.” Then Charles Vane huffs, seemingly bothered or uncomfortable by the conversation. “You forget,” he says after a long, pensive moment, flicking his gaze upwards to meet yours. “I wasn’t always a pirate.”

Whatever aimable relationship Vane claims to have with the shop’s owner, it fails to manifest in front of you. Over time, the owner-now-landlord visits the trading booth less and less, and Vane drops in occasionally to browse the ever-changing stock.

Furthermore, since the conversation, you avoided talking about the past.

Part of you has never forgiven him for turning pirate, raising the black flag, and robbing without apparent care or thought. It seems as if Vane knows this, because he sometimes reminds you that he wasn’t always a pirate. Perhaps he thinks you’d like him better if you remember that he used to be another man; or at least, he used to act like another man.

You figure if you refrain from mentioning the once-kind past, he’ll cease to talk about such, too.

It’s unusually early for visitors and clients alike when familiar faces filter through the door, steel weapons clinking against their belts and their boots squelching with seawater. You look up from a catalog and can’t help the smile that crosses your face. “My two favorite Edwards,” you greet, “What are you doing here?”

Kenway’s eyes twinkle as he leans across the counter and places a brash kiss on your cheek. “Just sailed in from Havana,” he says cheerfully, tugging down his sooty, stained white hood to reveal a muss of dirty blonde hair. “We don’t usually make midnight trips, but it’s easier to avoid pirate hunters.”

“Also,” Blackbeard rumbles, flashing a brief, untempered grin, “a mutual acquaintance may have mentioned your daytime whereabouts.”

Kenway peers over your shoulder to the half-opened crates. “What’s that?”

“Tea bricks,” you say. “Apparently, you cut a sliver of this solid block, heat it over a fire, grind it into a powder, whisk-- and it becomes tea. It’s used as a currency in some countries. I suppose in Nassau, it will do fine as a beverage.” You gesture to the rest of the shop. “Feel free to browse. Mind the wandering hands.”

“Quick, Thatch, distract her while I pocket these silk kerchiefs,” Kenway hisses, and you and Thatch share an exasperated look. “I jest. Join us for a game at Avery later?”

“Maybe if you show some coin,” you reply, and pick up the catalog again. “When you raise the devil with the rest of your lot, set the island in a panic, and it’s the end of all things, then and  _ only  _ then can you raid and loot my shop to your heart’s desire.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Kenway chirps, eyes roaming over the merchandise. Thatch, likewise, seems to assess the worth of each and every visible item the trade shop has to offer. “Just curious, that painting with the galleons, d’you think it’ll look nice hanging in my cabin?”

You have every reason to believe that Kenway will swipe something as soon as your back is turned, and every reason to doubt that he would deceive you so lowly, but don’t have time to decide when the front door opens and Charles Vane walks in.

Kenway turns and arches an eyebrow. “Well, well, well,” he says with a sly smile.

“Shut up.”

“All right.”

Vane switches his scrutiny to Blackbeard, and forces a semblance of grudging respect to his tone. “What’re you doing here?"

“We were just talking with the lass,” says Thatch. “Just a coincidence, our paths crossing. And what brings you here, so far from inland?”

“I came from  _ Ranger _ , not the town.”

“Doesn’t answer my question, Vane.”

“My dear,” Edward Kenway whispers to you, as Vane fishes wildly for an excuse, “what is with those absolutely horrendous curtains?”

“Gentlemen,” you say loudly, cutting off whatever Vane was about to say and ignoring the others’ faux-innocent expressions, “if you’re not here to seriously consider purchasing, selling, or trading goods, I suggest taking your banter outside. Three brawling pirates will not bring good business.”

“We’re not fighting,” Blackbeard claims.

You smile thinly. “Not yet.”

Thankfully, the mellow side of Kenway kicks in and he raises his hands in defeat. “All right, let’s talk outside and far away from this fine establishment.”

Vane pushes past Kenway with a scathing glare, and sets a heavy pouch on the counter, its contents metallic and wealthy. “I’m here to buy and stock up,” he says icily, “so it answers your question, Thatch, and permits me to stay.”

The two pirates are already on their way out, and Kenway tosses a parting remark: “I better see you two at Old Avery later. Bring your cards.” The door shuts and the shop shivers into silence and shadows once more. Vane suddenly can’t meet your eyes, and he curls his hands against the edges of the scared countertop.

“You’re not really here to buy anything, are you?” you say gently.

The auburn-haired man glowers. His pride won’t let him admit that  _ No, he’s not really here for business _ , or anything akin to such, so he just raises his chin and asks, “What’re offering?”

“Charles.”

“ _I_ _said_ ,” Vane growls, hackles rising, “ _what’re offering?_ ”

For the next few minutes, you show off the pantry stock from various West Indies islands and plantations, then the Oriental tea bricks, and strike up conversation about the recent occurrences of fake goods tainting the gemstone and jewelry trade. It’s half-hearted talk, whatever invested energy drained by Vane’s rather distracted personnage.

You finally stop talking and start to focus on paperwork. You open the black ledger and start to ink the morning’s shipments. Charles Vane tucks himself in a corner of the stop, hands fluttering from trinket to trinket. Eager to touch something, to steady himself with a tactile sense. Unlike the earlier pirates, he’s not distracting you from your profession, so you leave him be; you let him stay.

Something about the ledger’s notes catches your eye and you crosscheck the records twice, before sighing and closing the book.

“What is it?” Vane asks.

“I’m missing a signature,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose and thinking hard for a moment. “But the ship’s not due to leave til afternoon. Know where this particular merchant’s docked?” Vane glances over to the scrawled notes, then nods. “All right. Let’s go. I can’t leave anyone in the shop by themselves.”

You seize your jacket from the coat rack and beckon Charles to follow. It would be easy for him to point in the right direction and tell you where to find the individual and ship of importance. But he merely waits for you to lock the store and then heads towards the further reaches of the harbor. The pirate slows his pace to match your shorter stride, his hands tucked primly behind his back.

“How’s  _ Ranger _ ?” you ask in an attempt to slice through the unnecessary silence.

“She’s moored near where we’re going. Low on food, so we’ll be docked for a while. We came in at the crack of dawn.”

“Midnight trips? Like Kenway and Thatch?”

“Aye. They told you about it?”

“They said it was to avoid pirate hunters.” At the mention of the mercenaries, Vane scowls and spits in disdain. You shrug. “And there’s been some talk around Old Avery. They used to be pirates, but some governments line their pockets in exchange for hunting down their former comrades.”

Vane grunts. “So eloquent. They’re fucking scourges and traitors, that’s what they are.”

The morning sunshine beckons you to tilt your head up and bask in the warm glow. A breeze tosses your locks and teases a few strands loose. You tighten your hold on the ledger, the weight reminding you of the status that would let you walk through the docks with the respect you deserved. Most of the ships here profited in your trade; and the ones that didn’t usually made very few trips to Nassau.

Even the pirate at your side maintains a respectable distance, and speaks to you like an fellow captain. Vane’s somewhat stiffer, a little more constrained now that there are spectators to your interactions. Afraid to appear nervous or distracted, like he was in the shop.

The two of you skirt around some dock workers hauling in the morning’s catch, and Vane catches your elbow, steadying your balance as the planks underneath groaned under the increased weight. You allow Vane to gently guide you to an unhindered path along the pier. You’re spectacularly aware of every second he holds you, and yet force yourself to think that it’s only a simple gesture, that it means nothing.

Eventually, you make your way to the merchant ship in question and task yourself with hunting down the quartermaster and his signature. In the meantime, Vane returns to the nearby  _ Ranger _ to pick a fight with his crew and first mate. Every time you would glance over to the familiar, formidable ship, you would see her captain hanging by the timber rails, observing and not unlike a hawk.

The ledger is properly filled out, and the apologetic quartermaster offers a lingering kiss on your hand. You would usually refrain from these sorts of social contact, but he’s a potential trade partner. With the future in mind, you smile and thank him for his business. Back on the docks and after a moment’s consideration, you find yourself crossing the ramp to board  _ Ranger _ where Vane waits.

“Welcome,” he says with a smirk. “When’s the last time you were aboard?”

“When you brought me to Nassau,” you reply, wandering around the sleek deck and enjoying the dull buzz of activity on and below decks. You run a hand against the smooth and scarred texture of the main mast. “Remember?”

“I do.” He clears his throat. “Got your signature?”

You tap your fingers on the record book. “It’s back to the shop for me. Thank you for showing me where the ship was docked. I suppose, also for letting me aboard  _ Ranger _ .”

Vane pushes himself away from the rails and joins you by the mast, seizing and hanging lazily on one of the ropes that binds the worn topsails. He glances around the deck, and you copy him, seeing how the rigging monkeys and hands move hurriedly with the captain’s eyes on their backs. The auburn-haired pirate towers over you, lean and lanky, and then he says gruffly, “You’re welcome.”

You duck your head, feeling the start of an embarrassed flush under his gaze. “I owe you once again,” you say quietly. “The job, apartment, my being in Nassau, and probably countless other courtesies. When are you going to call in a favor?”

His lips curl into another smirk, this one a little more sinister or kindly, depending on whether or not you knew him as a friend. “Don’t like having red in your ledger?” Vane asks amusedly.

_ Black ink means profit _ , was one of your first lessons as a trader. The second lesson was  _ Red ink means debt _ .

“No one likes being in debt.” You lower your voice, mindful of your surroundings. “You’re a pirate who keeps giving and giving. What’s that supposed to mean while we’re in the heart of the Pirate Republic?” Vane shrugs. “Well, fine. I’ll be waiting for your call. Thank you, again.”

“You’re welcome, again. See at the Avery. Sundown.”

The rest of the day passes quietly, its excitement contained to the early morning hours. By the time you finish the last of the paperwork and copying tomorrow’s trade schedule, you close shop and take your time through the winding paths inland, towards the townhouse complexes and more clustered buildings. Old Avery is the tavern by and for pirates, and with some miracle, you’ve claimed a place amongst the sailors.

A pair of slender hands wrap around your middle and swings you around playfully. “There’s the lady of the night,” James Kidd crows, and you laugh, swatting at him. “What? You want down? Nah, let me carry you to the tavern, and then everyone can ogle at us, how about that?”

Kenway and Thatch are enthusiastically conversing with a man you’ve yet to meet; tall and dark-haired, stature and uniform suggesting yet another privateer-turned-pirate. A long scar slashes across the middle of his face, running diagonal to the various creases on his forehead. Then Edward Kenway spots you and Kidd, stops talking, and he cocks his head. “What the hell’re you two doing?”

“Evenin’, Kenway.” Kidd ungracefully dumps you on the table, scattering a few cards in play, and he winks at you. “All good? Dignity intact.”

“Yes. Thank you, James,” you say, chucking him under the chin playfully. “Such a gentleman.”

“It’s my pleasure. And a bit of advice, princess,” he adds, jerking a thumb at the unknown pirate. “ Don’t be scared by Ben. He’s a little more level-headed and honor-bound than the rest, but he’s just as dense as the others when it comes to women.”

“Thank you, James,” the dark-haired pirate says sarcastically, running a hand over his face and neat sideburns. “What a wonderful introduction.”

“What are friends for?”

“This is Benjamin Hornigold,” Kenway swiftly cuts in, stepping forward. “Captain of  _ Benjamin _ , which he probably named after himself, a nice pirate, a harsh mentor, and an Englishman ‘til the end. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a lightweight, drunk and red-faced and slurring only after two and a half drinks--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hornigold groans.

The rest of the pirates, even stoic Blackbeard, burst into raucous, friendly laughter. The noise is infectious, and you shake your head, smiling at the good company.

Hornigold sets his hands on his waist, broad and imposing, though there’s mirth in his voice. When he smiles, the scar and creases around his eyes deepen. “Now that you  _ all  _ have collectively ruined our first impressions, how about we start the first round of drinks?”

You do eventually exchange formalities with him, taking note that if there were ever a ‘nice pirate’, it would be Hornigold. He’s charismatic and talks grandly about his companions’ achievements. While he dishes a great sense of self-confidence , his eyes constantly flit back and forth around the table. Hornigold concurrently invites each person to share their thoughts yet holds them accountable for such. 

It comes as no surprise to learn that he helped establish Nassau as the pirate capital.

“Princess, you’re more than welcome to stay on the table,” says Kenway, passing around sloshing tankards, “but we might have to play around you. Are you joining for a few rounds?”

“Only for a while. Early schedule in the morn.” You hop off the table and seat yourself next to the newest pirate.

“You gamble?” Hornigold asks.

“She’s earned her spot here,” Thatch says, settling more comfortably in his seat and he fixes his black eyes on you. “But we ought to wait for Vane, or he won’t shut up for the rest of the evening. Thought he’d show up by now.”

The others nod in agreement. Hornigold brings out a deck of cards which he deftly shuffles. “Anyone know where he’s at?” Although the question is directed to everyone present at the table, a few gazes slide over to you expectedly. Hornigold observes this and after a moment, regards you with a small, tactful smile. “Ah. Are you and--”

“No,” you say coolly. “And you can fuck off with those hasty assumptions.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hornigold mutters, as Kidd cackles at his stunned expression. “All right, all right. Here I was, expecting some quiet merchant’s wife or daughter.”

Kidd shakes his head, shaggy hair falling in his glittering eyes. “That was your first mistake.”

Benjamin agrees. He turns to you, head tilted slightly and lips parted to show the barest of a genuine smile. “Where in the world did they find you?”

“Once upon a time, ” says Charles Vane as he makes his way to the table, “there used to be a port city somewhere along the New American colonies.”

Toting a bottle of grog, he sits down heavily in the chair opposite to you. Vane takes a long swig before he continues; his deep voice weaves a story that demands attention.

“Then one day, the town’s under siege, people are dead on the streets, and I stole her away before she could burn to death with the rest. The end.”

You idly toy a gold coin with your thumb and forefinger. You only look up once, and it’s to realize that everyone but Vane stares at you. He’s instead engrossed with the horizon, watching the sun slip behind the ocean waves. Perhaps he’s lost in the past, in the exact opposite way you’re struggling to keep your distance from those sort of memories.

“Is that true?” Hornigold asks carefully.

“Why would I lie?” Vane snaps, glaring irritably at the other pirate. “Fuckin’ hell, Hornigold, if ye--”

He raises his hands in self-defense. “Calm down, Vane. But we know you wouldn’t save some random lass out of the goodness out of your heart.”

“He didn’t save me,” you interrupt. The cold, dull coin digs into your palm. “Like Charles said. He stole me away.”

You don’t care if this tidbit of information sates or incites their curiosity.

Hornigold starts to deal the cards, and with that, it seems best to leave the conversation alone.

Everyone refills their tankards and secure their spots around the table; Kenway seizes the empty chair next to you. He tries often to catch your eye, but you remain stubbornly focused on your hand. The game begins with no clear wins or losses. People are eager to fold, instead refreshing what each person’s poker face looks like. They carefully reserve their coins for later, higher stakes. Night falls quickly and torches are lit in the absence of sunlight.

You sweep the pot for several rounds in a row and then before long, announce your departure. Any more and you’ll start to tempt pickpockets. Hornigold, who’s forfeited more hands than anyone else combined, stares at you incredulously-- or rather, your newfound winnings.

“Teach me,” he demands, tossing his cards to the table. “With those skills, I’d seek out better opponents.”

“Oh, but she can’t,” Kidd remarks. “She likes us too much. Ain’t that right, princess?”

“Right, Kidd. Good night, all.”

As you head towards the townhouse complexes, you hear someone murmur to the others,  _ Why do you call her… _ and then you’re out of earshot. Walking home requires your constant attention: you scan your surroundings looking for signs of trouble and if necessary, ways to escape. The same way Benjamin Hornigold remains vigilant amongst friends, you think as you climb the stairs to your complex.

Lamplight casts long shadows along the porch, and as usual, you’re the first to snuff the candle on your sill and retreat for the evening. Nassau doesn’t sleep all at once. Lights disappear one by one until the early morning hours, and then they start to return in preparation for the new day.

With the fire that fills your home with warmth and light, it’s easy to miss the way the gaslight outside flickers back to life.

Then it’s accompanied with a soft knock on the door, and an even softer voice calling out, “It’s just me.”

You open the door and slip outside, clinging to the woolen blanket draped over your shoulders. “Charles Vane,” you chide gently, “if you keep visiting me in the dead of night, people will think that you’re trying to court me.”

“Nonsense. It’s not midnight yet.” He casts his gaze aside to focus on some miniscule flaw in the building’s brick and mortar layout. At least he’s not hopelessly intoxicated. Still, the pirate looks pale and conflicted, and you worry your lip. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

You lean against the door and Vane mirrors your movement, setting his tired head back against a wooden post. “Did you at least win a couple of hands?” you ask.

“Here and there.” He huffs crossly. “But then we started talking about pirate politics and the pardon that’s coming ‘round these parts. Hornigold and Thatch were ready to let fists fly by the time I left.”

“And you didn’t stay to watch?” You shake your head. “More important question: Pirates have politics?”

“I know, it sounds ridiculous. I could care less about those matters. We rob, we loot, we plunder, and at the end of the day they still struggle to define what it means to be another piece-of-shit government.” Vane bares his teeth. “I might not have founded the republic, but I’ve learned that being a part of Nassau means you’ll fight for your crew and your brothers and your right to freedom. Fucking Hornigold’s already forgotten what that means.”

“Hornigold helped create the republic. Why the sudden change of heart?”

He starts to pace around the narrow porch, growing more agitated by the minute. One hand gestures wildly in the air while the other perches on the hilt of a pistol. “No, no. He’s always been about self-preservation. If and when Nassau starts to show any signs of weakness, he’ll be the first to jump ship.”

“Hopefully the island and republic stays strong,” you offer, “and perhaps he’ll fight alongside you and the others when the time comes.” You step forward and force him to stop pacing or else collide with you. “Charles. Relax.”

“I can’t.”

“Charles, you’re going to wake the neighborhood, so hush,” you say, reaching out and smoothing out his lapels. “You’ve been drinking. Everything feels a little more intense, a little more too overwhelming when you’re drunk. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and forget that you were ever worried.”

He blinks hazily at you. “And then what?”

“And then you’ll be back to your regular notorious self. That doesn’t sound too terrible, does it?”

“You--” Charles shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I probably don’t. But it seems Thatch is on your side. Kenway and Kidd, too, I bet.”

“Aye.” It sounds unsure.

“They’ll stand by your side.” You smile a little. “Pirate politics. What a concept.”

Vane cards a hand through his auburn hair. “I always wondered,” he murmurs, “What’s it like for you, being in the company of murderers and traitors, what’s it like being kissed by someone who’s no chance of entering those pearly gates? Do you like it? Does it excite you?”

“What kind of answer are you looking for?”

“An honest one.” Vane cups your chin, like he thinks you'll flee from the grounds. 

“It’s about self-preservation.”

His eyes narrow. “Go on.”

You wish you were back in the warmth of your home, instead of in the nighttime chill, face to face with Charles Vane. You wonder what’s the point of telling him the truth about anything when it fails to present itself in a public situation. No one’s supposed to know that Vane can be anything other than the brash, contemptible corsair.

And it’s hardly likely that he would change at all.

“Finding common ground with pirates and joining them for the occasional game of cards is the best guarantee of safety on Nassau,” you say, absolutely sure that he can feel the pulse racing in your neck. “And as God’s my witness, I don’t mind the company. You lot make me feel more welcome and content than any place or person I’ve known before.”

A wind brings the noise of the harbor, singing crickets, the crashing waves, and the chatter of Old Avery.

“Kenway makes me laugh,” you continue. “Thatch never lies to me. Kidd listens and he’s always up for an adventure. I rather don’t care for your first mate, if I’m being completely truthful.”

“Me neither,” Vane admits, eliciting a quiet laugh from you both. “What of Hornigold? ‘Twas your first time meeting him. Think he’s handsome, think he’s a ‘nice’ pirate?”

“I think he merits some faith. One can only hope that he realizes his future lies with a band of brothers worth dying for.”

“What of me?”

“Truthfully? Sometimes I think that you were made for the rough seas; other times, I wonder if you could have been anything else.”

“You don’t quite understand,” Charles Vane says gruffly, “but I chose this life. Just like the others.”

You tilt your head. “It’s that simple?”

“Has to be. Don’t have time to think it through. And if the regrets start to pile up, ye just think about the gallows waiting for each and every last pirate.” He grins for such dark humor, and you shiver not entirely from the cold. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe in that trading booth. There’s no market for dead merchants.”

You see that most of the terseness is gone from his frame. Vane is softer now, with the way he speaks and looks. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel.

Charles Vane sighs and he places his hand against your cheek. “Don’t be afraid,” he says again. “You owe me something, so let this be it. I don’t want you to worry about Hornigold or myself, or the pardon or Nassau. You should focus on matters like red in the ledger, or missing signatures--

“--or those who come when they’re not wanted?” you tease. He snorts and distractedly adjusts the blanket around your shoulders. “Or claiming to buy, and leave empty-handed?”

“I prefer to steal.”

“You truly  _ are  _ a pirate, through and through.”

“See? Easy to condemn me.”

“It is. You should try it sometime.”

“I will.”

Charles twists his hands in your hair, curling around your locks, and he gently, resolutely pins you against the door. His leather jacket rasps against your bare skin, though nothing such as rough as the wood on your back. You look up and see the intensity in his dark green eyes yield to something like endearment.

Vane closes the distance and after a moment’s hesitation, he kisses you. With his rough lips enveloping yours, it’s effortless to melt into his touch.

There is none of the cruellness and indifference you’ve taught yourself to recognize.

Your hands rest against his chest, fingers skirting upwards to trail along his exposed neck and collarbone. He shivers at your chilly touch. “Damn pirate,” you murmur against his lips, “betting your scarf in a game you can’t win. You’re hopeless, Charles Vane. And reckless.”

“Help me win it back,” he whispers. “Tomorrow and every time after that.”

“Fine. Just kiss me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (next chapter is a short deleted scene, no impact on the story here)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was a lovely scene I thought about publishing in new libertalia, but instead favored meeting benjamin hornigold directly. I don't think there will be another opportunity for this sort of setting, so it'll just rest here as a deleted scene (takes place during the walk on the docks).

“You heard of a man named Benjamin Hornigold?” Vane asks suddenly.

“The name’s familiar.”

“Best if you never have to meet him.”

“Is he another pirate?” you ask.

“That, and worse.” Vane flashes a smile that’s more like a wolf baring its fangs. “He was a friend. Hornigold was a privateer, until he stole and became the captain of  _ Ranger _ . Gave her to me after he got his own ship.” His voice balances the fine line between annoyance and respect. “Recruited Blackbeard as his second-in-command. Then after all that, he helped establish Nassau as the pirate capital.”

“Why’s there bad blood between you and him?”

“Sold his soul off to the fuckin’ governor. He donned their colors, switched out the black flag for the British one, and he’s being paid for every pirate he kills.” Vane smooths down his coat, glancing over to the briny waters. He sets his jaw. “So be careful. Don’t keep the wrong company.”

“I don’t know if I can judge my company,” you chuckle. “After all, I trade with the Brits and Indies during the daytime, and once night falls, I gamble with pirates. Mark me, Charles, and make sure I’m not bad company for you.”

“Even if you were,” Vane says gruffly, “I could handle it. Betrayal’s a fuck-all; it’s either a thorn in your side or a sunk ship.”

“Do you think Hornigold thinks the same way? Did he expect you to follow in his footsteps?”

Vane snorts. “Of course he did. But the prick turned his back on me. Kenway. Thatch, Rackham, Kidd. Now he’s eager to hunt us.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Perhaps he was never a friend in the first place.”


End file.
